


Wait and Wander

by ouro_boros



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Anxiety, Blanket Permission, F/F, Gen, Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, Podfic Welcome, but I wrote it to be romantic, could be read as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 06:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18733912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouro_boros/pseuds/ouro_boros
Summary: Rita is sitting on her bed.Rita is sitting on her bed, and Estelle is coming back.Estelle is coming back.





	Wait and Wander

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only just replaying this wonderful game, so I don't remember all the specifics of the ending. I do seem to recall, however, that Estelle planned to travel the world. So this takes place after she finally comes back. (I also remember what happens to Aspio; let's just assume Rita's shack is in a non-specified area.)
> 
> [You can find me at oury-boros on Tumblr!](https://oury-boros.tumblr.com/)

Rita pleated her sash. The silver thread weaved throughout the fabric (decorative in rest, conductive in use) glinted in the lamplight, a spark of white in the yellow gold of her room. She liked thinking about light these days; it was a new area of interest for her after years of single minded obsession narrowing her studies. Estelle had kind of joined her, but her interest was one of hobby. No longer a potential heir to the empire, she had become an amateur writer, an amateur artist, and an amateur everything else based on her plentiful letters.

Shoot. Her letters.

Rita huffed, smoothed her sash out, and immediately crumpled it again as she tossed it behind her. She started pacing around her room, hunting down every stray letter she could find. She had a habit of leaving things wherever she finished with them, and Estelle's letters took a while to read. It wasn't like she was going to sit still for a half hour to read pages of "miss you!!" and "thinking of you!!" and "can't wait to see you!!" So they were scattered all over the place. And now she had to pile them together and shove them under something fast, before Estelle walked in and thought Rita kept every letter she sent. Which Rita had. But Estelle couldn't know that. She would misconstrue it somehow, think it was a sign Rita had missed her too.

Which Rita had.

But Estelle couldn't know that.

Rita had about twenty letters tight in her arms after a shack-wide search, and she knew that wasn't enough, that many must still be missing, but she figured if she couldn't find them then Estelle might not either, and it was best to find a pile of books (no, not books, Estelle might read them) or a mass of laundry (no, not laundry, Estelle might offer to help sort through it) or a drawer somewhere (no, not a drawer, Estelle might peek inside; her friends were a bad influence and a penchant for innocent snooping had long ago become nosiness) to shove them between/under/within. 

Then her front door stole her attention with a polite knock. It patiently waited for her permission—which she, shocked into automation, gave—before opening underneath a familiar slender hand (ungloved, Rita noticed too quickly. The skin had seen a sun brighter and closer, felt harsher breeze and the abrasive salt of sea air).

Estelle beamed.

"Rita!" she cried before running over and hugging her tightly. "It's so good to see you, I've missed you so much!"

"I, uh," Rita sputtered in reply, "me too."

Rita would have loved to reciprocate the embrace (after a second's wait, of course, wouldn't want to seem too eager), were her arms not occupied. Estelle eventually noticed this and backed away, hands still grasping her shoulders. She saw what Rita was holding, made a couple guesses, and quickly arrived at the truth. 

"Rita, are those my letters?"

"Uh, no."

"Were you trying to hide these when I came in?"

"No! Why would I? It's not like I..." like she read and reread them to herself every night when research frustrated her, when she forgot the world outside of her bed, when she remembered that no one could ever love her.

Estelle smiled at her.

No matter how long they'd spent apart, after all, Estelle knew her friend very well.

"Let me help you," she said, already taking an armful of her own paper and ink.

She set them down on a nearby desk, already more paper than wood. Hidden in plain sight. Estelle had always been the smarter one between the two of them, academic accolades aside. Rita followed suit. Task complete, they stood side by side, each looking at but not quite touching the other. Rita gave in like an apple ready to spark revolution, throwing her arms around Estelle's waist and squeezing her tight enough to burst. Estelle responded in kind with a touch more tenderness, arms around Rita's neck, one hand raised to card through messy red hair.

Rita wasn't crying.

But _hell_ was she happy Estelle was home.


End file.
